


figure eight (lovers hold on)

by kitmarlowed



Series: archaeologists au [2]
Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: M/M, hollywood healing, major injury underreaction, what even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is a story all on it's own, past and present and an ending that isn't really an ending at all</p>
            </blockquote>





	figure eight (lovers hold on)

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for violence and cruelty, and attempted murder

i.

let’s start this epilogue with a trip down memory lane, don’t pack, we aren’t staying

 

He’s just dropped out of Cambridge (bright future, regardless of... well, you’ve wasted it now), what life there is ahead of him is cloudy and uncertain but the sky when he finds himself in Egypt, living the eternal cliche, is a clear, clear blue and what matters is that he chose this, and that’s all the matters, has to be, else why are we singular and not all one hive mind, see?

It’s one of the periodical lulls in the traffic of archaeologists to Egypt, moved on to brighter things (Egypt’s been dug up to death, you see boy, you need evidence to make all that sand worthwhile) but Leo, unfinished degree in mechanical engineering, thinks that there’s nowhere else to start a new career (a first career, the little paintings on the side of school work that sold only when he begged, people wanting squares on a canvas not some Grecian heathen goddess, not even iconography of their own religion - “why’s Madonna on those rocks?” - the paintings don’t count, art, they’ve always told him, is not a career, and on this point he couldn’t be bothered to prove them wrong) in archaeology than Egypt; it’s the done thing, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s in a lull, there’s hardly anyone here, just tourists and yeah, if you want, he supposes at this point he’s just a tourist too.

When he finds it, though, he feels it first - a change in the air around him, like a sign that says that thing you did with university may have been an okay decision.

It is a shard of stone, a tablet covered in hieroglyphs, a scrawl not a painstaking carving and there are symbols he’s never seen. He nicks a barcode from a crappy torch on a marketstand back in the clutches of (barely civilised) civilisation and sticks it on, flies for Florence, flies for home, no-one questions him.

Stealing artifacts makes you an archaeologist, doesn’t it?

 

“Hey,” he says, sliding into a barstool and smiling at the barmaid, “I’ll have the house draught, thanks,” and Zo scoffs, “just beer?” he says, “I thought we were celebrating.”

“We are,” Leo replies, slides small home printed photographs across the bar, lowers his voice slightly, “it’s a new cult, or at least one I’ve never heard of before and I did a lot of reading before I went to Egypt.” He laughs, grabs Zo’s hands, says, “This could be extraordinary!”

“And what are going to do with it?” says Zo, “last I checked, and myself I’m pretty abreast of what is a crime and what isn’t, stealing artifacts wasn’t strictly legal.”

“Well,” Leo says, “as you say, taking artifacts from Egypt without anyone’s say so is, if not illegal, then certainly frowned upon but, if I go back to Egypt with a team and pass my self as a legitimate archaeologist I can find out more about this new cult and not get thrown in a jail.”

“I’m in,” Zo says, distractedly and Leo looks over his shoulder to where a boy with a halo of blond curls sits with friends.

“Zo,” he says lightly, “should I be worried?”

“What? No, shut up, Leo. I met him last week, while you were off gallivanting, I might add, leaving me here by my lonesome.” Off Leo’s continued look he adds, “Fuck off, Leo, he’s legal.”

“I,” says Leo, “am very happy for you, Zoroaster,” and Zo says, “Fuck you.”

 

The historians of Florence all laugh him out of their dingy little offices, crammed high with books and artifacts they probably bought, he doesn’t really like any of them, thinks it best that they refuse - one of them, though, speaks of a young man in Rome who might be able to help him, says he’s a teaching assistant at the university and that his name is Riario. Leo thanks him and leaves.

 

ii.

“Do you remember the day we met?” Leo says, kicking the bodies out of his way as he circles Riario, guns very firmly still in hand.

“Yes,” is the breathless reply, a plea follows: “in God’s name, _artista_ ,” and Leo snaps, leaps on him, throws one gun out of reach and grabs his collar.

“Give me a reason,” he shouts, “you fucking monster! Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t just shoot you dead or just leave you here to die on your own.”

Riario’s hands, blood red and shaking, leave the wound at his hip and clutch for purchase on Leo’s chest, he repeats and repeats, “please,” and it’s so pathetic that Leo almost screams the word: “Why?”

Riario shakes, doubles in on himself and he’s crying and Leo doesn’t understand and the gun is still in his hands, pushed up under the other man’s jaw, he says again, “why?”

“Because you found me too late,” Riario says, flexing his fingers in Leo’s shirt, “because my faith is more important than you, and because God’s bishop on Earth has a particular interest in the Mithraic cult,” he raises his head, asks, so low Leo barely hears him, “how’s your friend?” and Leo punches him, sends him sprawling over stone and grass and there’s a pattern of blood from where he was.

“I don’t fucking know,” Leo hisses, “you stabbed him, no - you threw a knife at him, a child!” Riario moves to speak and Leo laughs, “no, let me guess, you did it to save us, they wanted to kill us - it’s a tired excuse,” he says, moving to crouch next to the man he may once have believed, “and I’m not in a particularly forgiving mood.”

 

iii.

The pictures are in his back pocket and his hand is raised above the door, ready to knock. There’s always that moment of doubt, you see, no matter who you are.

“Are you lost?” a voice says, quiet, barely a whisper but a whisper with bite, from the mouth of a man with dark hair, black eyes and a small mocking smile, “signore?”

“Ah, no,” says Leo, trying to ignore the thoughts that swirl in his mind and scream at him to run because those eyes are so very clever and that mouth is something much worse. He clears his head, smiles, says, “I’m looking for a Girolamo Riario,” no doubt in his mind that he’s already found him.

The man nods, leans around Leo to open the door to the classroom, says, “that would be me, please, come in, I only have some essays to mark. Accommodating you should be no trouble,” and Leo thinks that any man this arrogant is not worth it, that is until the man looks up and smiles at him again. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Leonardo da Vinci,” he explains, and I was told by a professor in Florence that you were an expert of sorts on historical and extinct religions--” and Riario smiles, arches an eyebrow at the papers on his desk, says, “how very nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Leo says, flatly, “ah, anyway, he suggested I talk to you about these,” he places the photos on the desk, doesn’t elaborate and tells himself that it’s he who is testing Riario (who glances at the symbols and smiles) and not the other way around.

“You mean the symbols in the corners and the centre,” says Riario, “it’s new, as far as I can tell but I’d have to see more to know what it meant.”

“My team and I are planning on going back, to Egypt, and digging around more, that’s why I came to you,” Leo tells him, “if you’re up for it, we could do with a historian.”

The teaching assistant hums, eyes back on the papers he’s grading, the fingers of the free hand resting idly on the photos, “can I hold on to these?” he asks, tapping once, “and I’ll get back to you if I conclude that this is something new,” and Leo says, “yes,” because he doesn’t know what else to do, writes his number on the back of one as Riario looks at him (still smiling, always smiling) “call me,” Leo shrugs at him, and he turns on his heel.

 

It’s two days before Riario calls him, voice that same harsh intelligence even through the phone line, he tells him that to all appearances the tablet talks of some new cult, a new god in Egypt, and Leo smiles, keeps him voice calm, says, “Do you know the Bar del Fico, off the Piazza Navona?”

There’s a small laugh, and Riario’s voice says, “I’ve never been but I have walked by it several times,”

“Meet me there,” Leo says, “meet me there at eight tonight and we’ll discuss this further.”

He thinks he hears a smile when Riario answers, says he’ll be there and hangs up.

 

Leo will admit that he’s half drunk when Riario, dressed more like a man of his age should in dark jeans, blue shirt, darker jacket, arrives and scans the room. He takes his chance and watches; Riario moves like he talks, a reserved grace, and he finds Leo in less time than he’d liked.

He places the photos on the table (corner, a good vantage point, he’d planned this well if he does say so himself) and then that infernal smile is back in place again and Leo can see that actually his eyes are a very dark brown, and he really needs to stop this, takes the pictures, says, “how much time do you need?”

“Before I can leave?” Riario says, dryly, and Leo resists, says, “yes, we aren’t on much of a time frame so whatever’s good for you.”

“I’m only,” Riario plays with the straw in the drink he ordered sometime, he pushes the ice down, drowns it, continues, “I’m just an assistant, if I tell my elders and betters that I’ve been invited to consult with archaeologists they’ll like as not just smile and not realise I told them I was leaving until I’ve been gone a week.”

“Nice people,” says Leo, tone to mock or bite he isn’t sure but Riario laughs, and Leo sees madness in the line of his throat, says, “of course they are, signore, but that doesn’t make them any less what they are,” and Leo gives in, asks, “which is?”

“Academics,” is the quick reply and Riario flags down a waiter, orders them both drinks, and settles into his seat.

Leo smiles, raises his glass, “To academics, and their foibles,” and Riario bows his head, clicks the glasses, says, “indeed.”

 

On the surface, Leo supposes, allows the supposition that, they have little in common - Leo can barely keep thoughts in his head and Riario speaks little but with some cutting precision that proves that he sees everything Leo does just as Leo studies the small movements that make the man - a passion for history and culture but that’s it, mostly.

Riario talks of languages, or studies into cults that never once swayed a faith that he hints at but doesn’t confirm, there’s a light in his eyes when he talks of angels that matches leo’s own when he talks of the joy of discoveries. Leo talks of an abandoned degree, a chance discovery, let’s slip more that he should on the way to being truly drunk but sees the caution that allows Riario only a sip for Leo’s five, even with dulled senses Leo knows, he can see.

All it takes is one last drink, the coughs of waiters who tell them that the bar’s closing, we’re sorry, please leave, falling out onto the pavement laughing as Riario attempts to hold him up. Strong hands bunch in his shirt, on at his shoulder, the other at his waist and Riario’s so close, if Leo leans up just a little--

He feels resistance snap like a twig, a rush and he sees all possible outcomes - the god fearing catholic horror, the disgust - sees the possibility for what he wants, takes the chance, closes the distance.

Riario freezes when their lips touch, the hands on Leo tense, relax and then pull and suddenly he's kissing back, crushes Leo to him and Leo can track sobriety as it floods back to him. "Not," he gasps, takes all the air he can and starts again, says, "not here."

Riario makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a growl, "where then, signore?"

"I have a hotel room, just ten minutes from here, I'll call a cab."

 

They get to the hotel room and Riario's hands are on him, draw lazy arcs upon his skin and gain frenzied momentum as they tug at the clothes, the leather jacket falls to the floor followed by his shirt and Leo pushes Riario down onto the bed and divests him of his own clothing, they fumble with each others belts and Leo steals kisses like he's drowning, reaches for the bedside cabinet and grabs, coats his fingers doesn't wait just pushes in (been waiting for this since the bar) and Riario gasps, tight around him, he curls his fingers and gets a scream. He joins one finger with another and the pressure makes him giddy with imaginings and Riario's hands are twisting in the sheets as he writhes beneath Leo.

When Leo meets his eyes and says nothing, Riario answers a breathless "yes".

When he pushes in Riario's hands find purchase on his shoulders, as he moves they drag down his back, his brain can't tell pleasure from pain like this and he just thrusts again and again, listens to Riario moan and scream depending on angle and speed. He shifts and thrusts again deep as he can get and Riario arches off the bed with a silent scream, nails draw blood down Leo's back until Leo reaches, grabs his wrists and pins them on the bed, thrusts again, and Riario fights against him, hands strain to be free and tendons flex but Leo holds firm and Riario may be fighting, moaning, growling g but when his eyes are open they're bright and his mouth's a wicked smile.

One final thrust and the fighting stops, Riario tenses, stops fighting Leo's hands and Leo looks at him, eyes fluttering closed and chest heaving and spends himself with a force he hasn't known in years, drops to his elbows and pulls out and away, rests at Riario's side who turns and rests his head on Leo's chest, draws patterns over skin, says, dryly if a little hoarsely, "never had a business meeting quite like that," and Leo laughs, kisses his hair, says, "neither have I."

Riario shifts, after a while, excuses himself to the bathroom and Leo takes a moment to breathe, to reevaluate, to think. He hadn’t, in all honesty, been expecting this turn of events, hadn’t expected, not strictly, perhaps he’d hoped. Riario is something Leo feels rather honored to have witnessed, so cool and calm right up to the moment he wasn’t - and he’s glad, glad regardless of the possible bad decision, the awkwardness to come because that, well, he hasn’t had anything like that in a long time.

 

iv.

Riario’s laugh then is a bitter, twisted thing but it continues, jagged, mocking and Leo stays resolutely where he is, doesn’t help as Riario moves, leans against his arms and looks up, hand back to his hip, ignoring the blood. He laughs again, says, “well, if you’re not in a forgiving mood and yet I’m still alive,” shrugs awkwardly and winces, “are we at an impasse then?”

“No,” says Leo, and it’s dark now, just moonlight and Riario is thrown into sharp relief, shaking. Leo frowns, “No,” and makes the decision, rips a part of his shirt and bunches it, presses it to Riario’s wound, asks, “do you feel weak?” and Riario gasps, says, “I don’t think you hit bone, we’re both very lucky that we aren’t actually out to kill each other” and Leo laughs without smiling.

“We have to move you, I suppose you can’t walk,” he doesn’t wait for an answer, snakes an arm around Riario’s waist and pulls him up, this time it’s his turn to ignore the blood but the harsh gasp, the fingers of the free hand digging into his arm he feels and says, “hush, trust me this last time and then I promise you’ll never see me again,” and Riario hums out a breath, says, lightly, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

The body in his arms becomes a dead weight, Riario’s eyes roll into his head as he slumps, hands falling and Leo thanks whatever deity will listen that Riario’s a skinny bastard, lifts him up fully, starts walking.

 

He sees the fire they’ve started from a mile away and when he gets there his legs are ready to give out, Zo glares as he lays Riario down, as gently as he can, and checks his pulse, there but thready, “do you have bandages left?” he asks without looking at them, eyes on the pain in Riario’s unconscious form, he sweeps hair from his closed eyes as Zo answers, “Yes,” and adds “but not for him.”

Leo feels guilty even as he flicks his eyes to Nico, looking healthier with his wound wrapped, Nico’s eyes are on the slow and shallow movement of Riario’s chest, and he says, “there’s a lot in the first aid kit, what happened?”

Leo laughs, sorts through to find antiseptic, starts cleaning out the gash in Riario’s side, says, “I shot him, I shot the men with him, I didn’t find the vault of heaven or the book of leaves, I didn’t let him explain,” and Leo knows a breakdown when he feels it in his chest, the constricting the whirring in his mind that won’t stop and he shakes his head, focusses on the blood that pours fro a grazewound he himself inflicted and Riario stirs, doesn’t open his eyes but places his more bloody hand on Leo’s, holds weakly and Leo remembers why, why he trusted this man in the first place.

Zo scoffs and stands, makes his way over to them and Leo shields as best he can, says, “what, Zoroaster?” and Zo throws his hands out, hisses, “what? That man would have had us all killed, he threw a knife at Nico! And yet here you are, cleaning a wound that by rights should have been in his neck, and checking to see if he’s alright!”

“What if it was Nico,” says Leo, and he knows it’s a long shot, a low blow, continues, “what if Nico had stabbed me, run off, would you, in my position, would you let your lover die?”

“He’s not your lover, Leonardo!” Zoroaster yells, “he’s not even your friend, and he betrayed us, he was always using you, even the first time he was using you -- there’s always an angle, always something he wants and he doesn’t care about you, us, anyone but himself and his ends and why can’t you see that?”

“Because I don’t want to,” it rips out of him, an admission he never wanted to make, “do you love Nico, Zo?”

And Zo’s eyes move to Nico and back, says, “yes, but you can’t love him,” he hisses it, “Riario has brought you nothing but pain!”

Leo nods, “I fucking hate him, Zo, I hate him so much, but I can’t kill him now, I can’t let him die,” he feels the hand curl tight around his, says, “we’ve been everything, Zo, I am as much him as myself, we are both the sum total of each other, you can’t ask me to leave that.”

Zo glares at both of them, turns and sits next to Nico who doesn’t smile though his eyes are soft, says, “I’ll never understand whatever it is that’s between you, but I’m not dead and fair’s fair, we shouldn’t let him die.”

Leo lets out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding just as tremors wreak through Riario and he’s eyes blow open wide, fix on Leo, he gasps, “where am I, Leonardo?” and Leo frowns, checks for the burning fever that tells him what already knew, says, “you’re going into shock, Girolamo, can you hear me? I need you to calm down, I know you’re in pain but please, panic is doing more harm than good,” and Riario looks at him, says, musing, “you shot me,” and Leo nods, “you more than deserved it,” and Riario smiles, a true and manic thing, collapses again as Leo laughs.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” Zo says and Nico places a hand on his shoulder, says, “Let them be.”

 

They find a private jet, fully fueled, hidden in the middle of nowhere just outside Abancay, Riario is conscious long enough to tell them that yes, the Vatican has private jets and the mercenaries certainly intimated that they had one (his words), Leo wishes he’d looted the bodies but the door has a password lock and he guesses it on the third try, (it’s holysee, no spaces, he doesn’t smile) Zo tells them he may be able to fly it and Leo thanks him in advance.

“To Florence or to somewhere with a hospital we can leave him in?” Zo asks and Leo, searching the cabinets for pain meds, shouts over the noise from the engine, “take us to Lima.”

“I hate Peru,” Zo says, “Lima it is.”

 

v.

That the first path, the expedition to find a new religion in a different, exotic land, ends in destruction should come as no surprise to you.

The make it to Egypt, they set up camp with permission this time, and Leo, Riario and the hugely over exaggerated team of Zo and two locals, start to dig, Riario keeps a weather eye out, no own notices until--

the men trash their camp while they sleep, take their findings and Riario stands by the burnt out fire, tall and unafraid, directs them to more artifacts hidden under bags. Leo sees the knife in Riario’s hand and lunges grabs for it, drags a cruel arch from Riario’s shoulder to close to his spine and Riario yells, throws him off, boot to Leo’s throat, presses lightly, says through tremors with a useless arm, “it’s nothing personal, _artista_ ,” (the nickname from smiles over rushed sketches and a sigh of, “you’re actually quite good, da Vinci, or should I say _artista_?”) says, “I had fun.”

Leo runs after them when they leave in some vehicle he hadn’t noticed, he yells, he screams at them, and Riario, pain in his features but a glint of something other in his eyes, fires, Leo falls.

 

When he wakes up, hospital, clean, they’ve flown him home, Zo tells him that they took everything, and that even if they go back and find more there won’t be enough, and the ship has already sailed. Tells him that the bullet by some miracle caused a clean break, no shattering, travelled fast enough to just go through, and Leo winces, says, “can I walk?”

“You’ll be on crutches for a couple of months,” says a voice he doesn’t know, not a doctor, too young, it’s Zo’s boy from the bar, introduces himself as “Nico, hi, the doctors said you should rest it but try to walk at least once a day.”

“Thank you, Nico,” Leo says, looking at Zoroaster and smiling. The smiles falls when he thinks, and asks, “what of Riario?”

“That bastard? Last I heard he made it back alive, had some surgery to fix severed ligaments or something. I think he has a teaching post at the university of Rome,” and Leo laughs, empty, says, “he’s got friends in high places now.”

 

He doesn’t plan revenge, thinks himself above that, but he stays out of Rome for years, caught up with the Medici’s, with Lucrezia.

He doesn’t forget, though, he can’t.

vi.

The doctors tell him that the bullet grazed just a hairs breadth from Riario’s bone, they say that it went septic, and that while Leo did well to clean it up he’s still going to have to take antibiotics fro a while, they say he should be able to walk.

They don’t ask how it happened, they don’t ask who he is or his relation to Riario and he’s grateful, books a flight back to Florence for Nico and Zo (Nico who’s sewn up and happy) and then a flight to Rome for Riario and himself. He says that it’ll just be to get him home and then he’ll leave, they look at him like he’s a liar and he feels tired, sighs, “please.” They go.

 

They sit in silence on the way back and Leo has everything to say but Riario doesn’t look at him and he has know idea where to start, he doesn’t even feel angry anymore and it confuses him, he thinks he should be furious, all he feels is alone.

 

Riario makes him coffee in the kitchen of his town house, still silent, walking on eggshells around him just as Leo was what feels like ages ago.

“Well,” says Leo, “I made you a promise, I’ll be keeping it and he moves but Riario’s hand closes around his wrist and pulls him back and he can’t do this again, his mind screams, but then he responds, kisses back and everything snaps again, he grips Riario’s shoulders, pushes back, says, “you betrayed me.”

And Riario presses kisses to his neck, “you expected it,”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Leo insists, eyes to the ceiling hands at Riario’s neck and the thought comes unbidden, you could end this here but Riario stops, stands and slides an arm round Leo’s waist, says, “but you always will, you won’t give up on me, and I certainly won’t let you go.”

“I fucking hate you,” Leo says and yes he means it but he also doesn’t and Riario smiles at him, this one sad but open, he takes Leo’s hand and starts pulling.

“I fucking hate you too,” he doesn’t say, “I wish I’d left you there to die, wish I’d never met you, wish,” he still doesn’t say.

Riario pulls him close and their hearts are loud combined in the otherwise silence of the house, says, “I love you too,” and adds the whispered nickname, the tag of respect and not contempt, “ _artista._ ”

Leo pushes him against the wall, calls him a liar, says, “will you scream for me once more?” and Riario laughs, replies, “make me.”

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> i uhm, yes. (just not a pwp kind of girl)


End file.
